


(More Than) Half Right

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD Research and Development has created a fantastic pair of next generations handcuffs. Well, a prototype, anyway. </p><p>Phil and Clint really should know better than to let these things be tested on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(More Than) Half Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Kisleth!

It actually, legitimately, wasn't Clint's fault, and for once everyone knew it. Clint was in R&D checking out some of their new arrow designs and Phil was there for show and tell (okay, a "Milestone Progress Report", but the guys in R&D got so excited it might as well be show and tell) when one of the engineers said the fateful words: "Why don't I demonstrate?"

The engineer, Dr. Crichton, followed up with, "Agent Barton, could I borrow you for a moment?"

Clint looked up, saw that the guy was standing next to Coulson, and nodded. "Sure." He set down the arrow he had been examining and joined them. Crichton was holding what had to be a pair of handcuffs, even if the cuff part was about two inches wide and the connecting "chain" looked more like a silver tube. 

"You press this button to open and seal the cuff," Crichton said, depressing a button. A seam appeared in the silver of the cuff and quickly widened. He gestured to Coulson, who extended one wrist and had the cuff sealed around it. "In single mode, you'd do the same for the other wrist and it would behave just like ordinary handcuffs. But these are designed to be used on two people." He motioned for Clint to extend his wrist. Clint glanced at Coulson, the held out his arm and let himself be locked into the second half of the cuffs. "In pairing mode," Dr. Crichton said, beaming proudly, "the tether becomes adjustable, so that you can get as much as ten feet of distance from your prisoner without disconnecting. The cuffs automatically determine whether they should be in single mode or pairing mode, so you just enable the tether--" he did something to Phil's cuff "--and pull the cuffs away from each other." 

Coulson drew his arm toward himself, away from Clint, while Clint held still. 

The cuff dug into Clint's wrist, but there was no perceptible change in the tether. 

Dr. Crichton frowned. "That's not... Hang on." He poked at Coulson's cuff again. "Try it now." Coulson pulled. The tether didn't budge. Crichton bent low over the cuffs, muttering to himself. After a moment he sighed and straightened up. "They worked before, but they _are_ a prototype," he said, resigned. "You had better take them off." 

Coulson pressed the button, but the cuff remained just as solid as the tether had. 

"Oh dear," Crichton said quietly. 

Two hours later, Clint and Coulson were seated across a lab bench from each other, their bound wrists resting on the center of the bench. Clint had his other arm folded up on the bench top as well, his chin resting in the vee of his elbow. 

Dr. Crichton sat back from where he'd been examining the cuffs with some sort of scope and rubbed his forehead. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I tested them with Dr. Tan, previously, and my best guess right now is that I calibrated the pairing mode detection too strictly, and it's refusing to extend because you're both male." 

"That doesn't explain why the cuffs won't open," Coulson said mildly. 

"I have to assume that the confusion between pairing mode and single mode is interfering with the nanotech generally," Dr. Crichton replied. "But I don't know for sure. I'm really am sorry, Agent Coulson, but I've collected all the data I can for the moment. I'm afraid you're going to be stuck like this while I analyze the information and determine a course of action." Coulson just looked at him. Dr. Crichton swallowed visibly. "It will be my top priority, of course." 

Coulson pressed his lips together, but nodded. "Very well." He looked at Clint, his severe expression easing. "Agent Barton, I believe we need to coordinate our schedules." 

"Sure," Clint said easily. They rose in unison, Coulson pausing while Clint sat on the lab bench and swung his legs over rather than make them walk all the way around the end like they had the first time. They strolled out of the lab in easy lockstep. "How long do you figure we'll be hooked up?" Clint asked. A passing junior agent shot them a startled look; he tossed her a grin. 

Phil gave him a dry look, not having missed the by-play. "Knowing R&D? At least three days. What they do, they do very well, and that includes bugs." 

"Ah, well, could be worse," Clint said philosophically. "Could be Tasha. She'd cut off my hand rather than give up that much privacy." 

"Don't exaggerate," Coulson said. "She'd only need to cut off the thumb." 

Clint snickered. 

***

Jasper snagged a cookie to complete his lunch and took his tray over to a cluster of agents, including Agent Lauer. They shuffled around a bit to let him into the circle. Seated, Jasper leaned forward over his tray and lowered his voice. "How's the betting going?" 

Lauer grinned. "Current odds favor a visit to medical on day two."

Jasper raised his eyebrows. "You really think they'd attack each other?"

"No, no," Lauer said quickly. "More on the order of an unwise attempt to get out of the cuffs."

"Ahhh, that I buy." He took a moment to eat, considering his bet. "I'll put $100 on a behind closed doors, but still audible, screaming fight on day three."

***

Given the choice between Clint's apartment and Coulson's, Clint didn't even have to think twice. Coulson's place was a lot nicer, in large part because he'd actually upgraded once or twice as pay raises came through. Clint had never bothered; he didn't spent much time at home, so what was the point?

So after taking both of them out of the pool of available field agents and lining up their schedules, which really wasn't hard without any missions to prep for, they spent the day catching up on paperwork and intelligence briefings and then headed to Coulson's place.

They ordered in rather than bother negotiating the kitchen while handcuffed together. Clint had an excuse all lined up for the delivery guy--it was a bet--but Coulson just met the guy's surprised and curious glance with a bland smile and paid without explaining at all.

"Whatever will your neighbors say?" Clint teased as they moved in unison to unpack the food and settled in to eat.

"The delivery person isn't going to be gossiping with the neighbors," Coulson said. He smiled suddenly. "Might make a fun story for his co-workers, though. We'll see just how much fun--and how bold they are--the next time I order."

Clint snickered, and they set to eating. One meal and some TV later, it was time for bed. Getting ready wasn't all that hard: pants were easy, and they each squirmed out of most of their shirts and let the garments hang from the center of the cuffs, for now. If the problem wasn't solved by the next day, they'd have to decide if they wanted to keep hand-washing and wearing the same shirts, or if it was worth cutting a couple. They were both functionally, if not naturally, ambidextrous, so tooth brushing and the rest went fine, with some politely averted eyes. 

But Clint couldn't help hesitating when they approached the bed. 

Coulson just tugged down the covers briskly. "Do you have a preference for side?" 

They could both sleep on either side--you couldn't afford to be picky in the field--but that didn't mean they didn't have their favorites. "It's your bed," Clint shrugged. Sleeping in Coulson's bed... they'd shared beds before, but none of them had been _Coulson's_ bed. Clint suppressed a sigh. Stupid distinction. 

Coulson looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll take the left, then." It was the side with the alarm clock. 

They climbed into bed and settled down on their backs, hands resting comfortably between them. Minutes passed. "Okay, I admit," Clint said eventually. "I'm having trouble here. I'm too comfortable to sleep like we're in the field, and I never sleep on my back at home." 

A heavy sigh answered him. "Me too," Coulson admitted. "How do you normally sleep?" 

"On my side. Either one, really." 

"Me too." 

Clint frowned. That was going to be awkward. "Well, might as well give it a shot," he said, regardless. 

Lying back to back had their hands either trapped beneath them and quickly going numb, or hanging awkwardly between their bodies. Lying back to front left Coulson's arm wrenched around behind him. 

"Oh, this is stupid," Coulson muttered. "We both know how this will be most comfortable." He rolled over so that they lay facing each other and scooted in until their hands rested comfortably on the pillow between them. 

He was very close, looking rumpled from shifting position so many times. Clint felt his heart give an extra thump. "Hi," Clint said, and then flushed. 

But Coulson just smiled. "Hi. Think you can sleep now?" 

No. "Yeah," Clint said. 

Coulson closed his eyes and seemed to drop off almost immediately, now that he was comfortable. Clint lay there for a while, gaze tracing the planes of Coulson's face, and enjoyed the quiet warmth that filled him as he lay there. 

***

Agent Lauer lay in wait in the cafeteria. He supposed he wasn't really 'laying in wait,' not when he was sitting out in the open with a tray in front of him. But he was eating his second salad _very_ slowly and waiting for Coulson and Barton to show up.

Scuttlebutt had it that, two full days and two nights into their handcuffed ordeal, the agents weren't showing any signs of strain. As the keeper of the betting pool, Lauer felt a responsibility to confirm the reports with his own eyes. If they were feeling the stress, they wouldn't be obvious about it--Coulson was a hard man to read at the best of times and, even aside fro his own pride, Barton wouldn't undermine that.

Lauer was almost to the end of the second salad and beginning to fear he would have to go back for a third--two salads was a hungry man, three was weird, but he wasn't about to risk his guts on multiple servings of the hot entrees--when the handcuffed agents entered the cafeteria. Laughing.

For a long moment, Lauer thought that they'd gotten out of the cuffs. There was nothing awkward about the way they walked together, no sign that the lack of privacy was starting to wear. But then they both reached for the trays with their non-dominant hands--Coulson's left, Barton's right--and he realized that they were still linked. He watched a while longer, but their easy conversation and the way they casually helped each other reach for items placed inconveniently to their free hands convinced him.

Looked like most of the bettors were going to have to pay up, and the long odds folks would be cashing in.

***

Five mornings waking up linked to Phil, their knees and toes brushing, and Clint finally remembered not to roll over and yank him rudely out of sleep. Clint was the earlier riser, and he'd never been one to lie around in bed. He preferred to get his blood moving and his head clear quickly.

Phil, it turned out, was the opposite. He seized every opportunity to swim out of sleep slowly. Clint had known that, but he'd never really _seen_ it before; on missions Coulson either made himself get moving quickly, or Clint was up and out the door before he stirred.

The process evidently involved a lot of slow blinking and a series of sleepy snuffling sounds that were either the best blackmail material ever, or a personal detail that Clint was never, ever sharing with anyone else. When Phil's eyes finally opened all the way and focused on Clint, he smiled softly. "Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep.

Definitely a personal detail. 

***

Agent Katherine Friedman entered the range, noted her name in the log, and made her way down the gun lanes to the last one, next to Agent Barton's archery lanes. She liked taking the last lane in the row, and not because she was hoping to catch sight of Barton, no matter what Tom said. He was hardly ever there, anyway; there was a more advanced course two levels down.

It's just that it was marginally quieter next to the archery lanes, and she could use the help when keeping her scores up. She was field _support_ , not field operations. She had to qualify, but she was never going to be a sharpshooter.

Today, though, Barton _was_ practicing; she could hear the twang of the bowstring. Except, wasn't he walking around handcuffed to Agent Coulson? Katherine didn't pay much attention to gossip, but that one had been hard to miss. Curiosity rising, she couldn't resist taking a step back out of her lane to peer around the barrier and into Barton's.

Coulson was there, all right. Leaning against Barton's back, his right arm extended behind him, alongside Clint's left, which was holding his bow. Of course, since they were back to back, Coulson spotted her immediately. He nodded hello. "Agent Friedman." 

"Agent Coulson," Katherine said, fighting down a blush. "Agent Barton." 

"There a problem?" Agent Barton asked, though he kept steadily shooting. 

"No, no," she said quickly. "I just heard someone in this lane and I didn't think you'd be shooting because of--" she waved inarticulately, then made herself be clear "--the handcuffs thing." 

"I've shot under worse conditions," Agent Barton said. He wasn't looking at her, but she thought she could hear him smile. "At least this time I'm handcuffed to someone cooperative." 

Agent Coulson chuckled. "I know how you are when you can't get any practice in. I wasn't about to be _un_ cooperative." 

"You know me too well, sir." 

"Well enough," Coulson said. He closed his eyes and leaned back against Clint. "But never too well." 

Katherine quietly slipped back into her lane. It was too late to get in on Lauer's handcuffs pool, but she could think of a couple others that might be worth a wager, after today. 

***

Eight days after accidentally sealing them into his 'next generation' handcuffs, Dr. Crichton finally figured out how to take them off. He assured them that he'd learned a great deal and that the next version would be much improved. 

"As long as you test them on someone else, Doctor," Phil said dryly. The man flushed, but didn't argue. 

They left the lab together, and Clint headed for the cafeteria. Which was apparently also where Phil was headed, because they made the turns in lock step, as if they were still cuffed. They exchanged a sidelong glance and chuckled. "You don't have to keep my schedule anymore," Clint reminded him. Phil tended to eat when he remembered, while Clint arranged his meals around his range and gym time. 

Phil shrugged. "I'm hungry. And if we don't both make an appearance now, who knows how many salads Agent Lauer will have to eat?" 

Clint laughed. Agent Lauer was, in fact, eating a salad when they got to the cafeteria. Clint resisted the urge to catch his eye; he had a couple bets on the go in the guy's various pools, and he wasn't about to throw him off his game, so to speak. 

Instead, Clint followed Phil over to the counter and served himself from the food laid out in the warming trays, relieved to be using his left hand again even thought he was capable of using either. The left just felt better. Glancing over at Phil, Clint caught him smiling a little as he served himself, and chuckled. "Glad to be using your right again?" Clint asked.

"As glad as you are to be using your left," Phil said, and they traded a smile.

They took seats together, facing each other across the table instead of side by side as they had been for the past eight days, but they weren't alone for long. Maria slid onto the bench next to Phil, a fruit salad and a lump of macaroni and cheese on her tray. Clint and Phil had both gone for the I-hope-it's-beef stroganoff. Sometimes, Clint thought the cafeteria must be an adaptation program for agents being sent into situations with questionable food preparation, because he _knew_ that mass-prepared food could be better than this.

"Eight days forced into each other's constant company," Maria began, "and you're still choosing to eat together? You know that the bets are all done now, right? If you had a ringer in Lauer's pool, they've already cashed in."

Clint rolled his eyes. "There's no ringer. He wouldn't even let Natasha bet. Honestly, I don't know why the odds were so long. Phil and I have worked in close quarters for longer than this plenty of times."

Maria raised her eyebrows even as she forked up some mac and cheese. "There's a difference between tolerating each other because a mission--during which you can normally at least piss alone--requires it and being forced to drag a co-worker into your personal spaces with absolutely no breaks."

"Clint's not just a co-worker," Phil protested, and even as Clint warmed at the declaration, Maria smirked broadly as she ate. Phil flushed. "I mean, we're friends." He glanced at Clint.

"'Course we are," It was true, even if--

"Are you sure that's all?" Maria asked. She put her fork down and leaned forward. "You weren't just _okay_ with spending all that time together, it actually made both of you _happier_. Don't you think that could mean there's something else there?"

For a moment, Clint couldn't work up the courage to look at Phil. Eventually, he managed a quick glance in his direction... and caught Phil glancing his way. Their eyes caught, and they both huffed a sheepish laugh and ducked their heads.

"You're at least half right," Phil said to Maria, but he didn't take his eyes off Clint.

Clint grinned. "More than half."

~!~


End file.
